


The Lone Prisoners

by CyreneAdler



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Gen, Godric's Hollow, Hogwarts, M/M, Ministry of Magic (Harry Potter), Nurmengard Castle (Harry Potter), Past Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald, Post-Movie 2: Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes of Grindelwald, Young Albus Dumbledore, Young Gellert Grindelwald
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:00:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29006448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CyreneAdler/pseuds/CyreneAdler
Summary: The ritual that breaks the blood pact requires something Albus may never be able to forsake.
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore & Eulalie Hicks, Albus Dumbledore & Minerva McGonagall, Albus Dumbledore & Newt Scamander, Albus Dumbledore & Theseus Scamander, Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald, Bathilda Bagshot & Newt Scamander, Gellert Grindelwald & Vinda Rosier, Leta Lestrange/Theseus Scamander, Newt Scamander & Theseus Scamander, Tina Goldstein & Theseus Scamander, Tina Goldstein/Newt Scamander
Comments: 8
Kudos: 24





	1. The Funeral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I assume that Travers doesn’t know about the blood pact…yet. 

‘It’s an honor to finally meet you in the flesh, Professor Dumbledore.’ As Albus slightly smiled and shook hands with a plump, old witch, who was showing great reverence for the preeminent wizard, he caught a glimpse of Theseus conversing with a subdued Torquil Travers. The Head Auror, enervated and lugubrious, looked like someone who had just been attacked by a hundred dementors. Since Albus last saw him on the Viaduct at Hogwarts, he had not consoled Theseus on having lost Leta.

The witch babbled, ‘Dreadful, dreadful… The Daily Prophet said Grindelwald nearly incinerated the entire Paris! I heard Theseus and Leta were both there. Oh, poor Theseus! Can’t imagine…Leta…gone…’ She shuddered and took a peek at Theseus.

The incident in Paris sent shock waves across the wizarding community worldwide. It was a catastrophic setback for the ministry, which had suffered a grievous loss after its Aurors either pledging allegiance to Grindelwald or being consumed by his black fire. Because of the ministry’s “No comment” and the lack of eyewitnesses, the Prophet’s ghastly coverage of Grindelwald’s rally had less than a grain of truth, whereas Newt’s account proved to give more substance to the night dubbed by the Prophet “Grindelwald’s Revengeful Return.”

‘How many times has Grindelwald eluded the ministry? Not to mention the International Confederation three months ago,’ exclaimed the witch furiously. ‘But _you_ would be able to stop him, wouldn’t you, Mr Dumbledore?’

‘I trust that the ministry will counter Grindelwald with greater success if they see the error of their ways, Madam,’ Albus said truthfully. ‘Nevertheless, I am grateful for your faith in me.’

The witch was bemused for a moment but beamed at him as she hurried to strike up a conversation with another guest, ‘It’s a pleasure seeing you, Mr Dumbledore!’

‘The pleasure is all mine.’ Albus nodded affably.

The chamber was rather cramped to hold an assortment of people paying their last respects to Leta Lestrange. Slender candles floated and flickered along the glistening wall. Translucent, silvery banners were ethereally drifting in mid-air. The enchanted ceiling was a seamless night sky studded with stars twinkling tenderly and mysteriously as though the heavens were penning an inviting love letter.

The sad truth suddenly struck Albus like being hit by a blast of biting air — Theseus, the valiant war hero, not Leta, the disfavored and _deceased_ outcast, was the center of attention. Theseus was Travers’ right hand, so she naturally joined the ministry as Travers’ assistant soon after her engagement to Theseus. The impassive ministry officials passing by Albus (most of whom graduated from Hogwarts) and whispering ‘Grindelwald,’ ‘Travers,’ and ‘Paris’ appeared to be Leta’s acquaintances who barely knew her. Not until Newt wistfully recounted how Leta abandoned her little half-brother, who drowned shortly thereafter, did Albus fully realize how her personal tragedy paralleled his own in a literally fatal way, both of their boggarts being their lifeless sibling who they only yearned to be free of yet never intended to harm. Deep down, Albus knew that he would not be liberated from the chains of his buried past, that he would be haunted by passionate repentance and the desperate desire to apologize to his family, and that he would pay the ultimate price for his part in Ariana’s death just like how Leta redeemed herself by sacrificing her life to save her loved ones. Albus could simply wonder would that price, when it should come due, be a noble sacrifice or a lethal curse…

Albus remained ruminative until someone behind him whispered, ‘Dumbledore? Professor?’

Newt was a bit peaky. His apparent attempt to comb his bushy hair was fruitless as it was as disheveled as usual. The fit suit and the absence of his cumbersome suitcase made him seem awkward, even comical.

‘Newt! I’d say you’d pass as a Muggle if you had put more effort into your hair.’ Albus tried to cheer him up.

‘I-I didn’t…’ Newt stammered. He hastily brushed his hair with one hand and continued, ‘I was going to talk to you about Ivor Dillonsby.’

‘Ah, did he give you a hard time? He can be a little pompous sometimes.’ Albus gave Newt an amused smile.

Albus had tasked Newt with borrowing some notes from Ivor Dillonsby, one of the notable wizards whom Albus had maintained contact with since his Hogwarts days. Ivor conducted fascinating research into dragon blood, in which he had renowned and unrivaled expertise.

When Newt brought Albus that silver, lustrous vial where two shimmering drops of blood fluttered like a pair of dancing butterflies, Albus winced at the idea of destroying it. At first, Albus shunned it and tucked it away as far from him as he could as if it was something contaminated that would exhaust the last air in a room and suffocate him. At the same time, he was tempted to reach for it, let that incised metal heavy with fond remembrances of that indelible summer carve into his palm, and perhaps feel the glow of Gellert’s blood. At long last, he hesitantly assuaged himself that knowing how to destroy it wouldn’t mean anything — he didn’t _have to_ destroy it. But, alas, ‘seeking the knowledge that will precipitate the vial’s destruction is a betrayal in itself, isn’t it?’ a sly voice inside him uttered. Albus tried to get that thought out of his mind. After late nights of delving into the realms of magical contracts and blood magic (Albus always revised his students’ assignments first), in a tattered, musty copy of _Medieval Blood Rituals_ , he discovered a curious line written in runes that loosely translated as _“The blood of nature, the most untamed yet unyielding, shall break the blood of man, however strengthened or enduring.”_ Albus grasped the runes’ essence in a heartbeat ( _nature…untamed yet unyielding…_ dragons?). For a fleeting moment, he was that talented, eighteen-year-old Dumbledore who had formulated a theory in transfiguration. _This isn’t unlike writing a paper about how to destroy a blood pact._ Albus told himself weakly. He hoped that Ivor’s notes could afford insights into dragon blood’s magical properties that concerned blood rituals, so he put Newt in touch with Ivor, who also held a fascination for magical beasts.

‘It’s not the notes.’ Newt hastened to add. ‘He said he would be glad to share his findings with you, and he wanted to extend his gratitude. Said his work couldn’t have been feasible if it wasn’t for you and the contacts you introduced him to.’ He paused. ‘It’s the actual dragon blood.’

‘What about it?’

‘Well…’ Newt hesitated. ‘He told me he didn’t have any spare dragon blood. Nothing recent or raw anyway.’ He shrugged glumly. Albus chuckled.

Newt widened his eyes and frowned. ‘What?’

‘I didn’t suppose Ivor would hand me one of his precious vials of dragon blood for nothing. I daresay he treasures them more than his wand.’ Albus swiveled round to look at Newt intently, ‘I was hoping that _you_ could help me find some dragon blood, Newt.’

Newt stared at Albus for a second and then silently nodded, ‘You are certain that dragon blood will work?’

‘Blood of other untamed and unyielding creatures may work, too.’ Albus explained patiently, ‘But dragons might be the _most_ untamed and unyielding, and as you must know already, the blood of dragons has magical properties unparalleled by any other creature.’

‘And dragon blood alone will break the blood pact?’ Newt pursued.

‘That…I’m not quite sure.’ Albus sighed inaudibly. ‘You see, the untranslated runes are ambiguous in this regard, almost cryptic.’ Albus’ gaze fell on a candle wiggling in the corner of the chamber. ‘I’m afraid, if I’m not mistaken,’ he murmured to himself, ‘the ritual of breaking it will require additions that are much more unique than dragon blood. Maybe something from _me_ …’ His voice trailed away.

‘A bit of _you_?’ Newt had listened attentively.

‘It’s my guess, but my guesses are usually good,’ Albus breathed.

‘Could be your blood.’

Albus gave Newt a bittersweet smile. ‘I wish it would only be that effortless.’

Newt abruptly directed his eyes over Albus’ shoulders and snorted. Albus looked back.

Travers flanked by two Aurors was striding purposefully toward him. His eyes were locked on Albus as he walked past a few wizards along the way, trying to speak to him.

‘Dumbledore.’ Travers gave Albus an officious nod. He looked utterly drained, Albus noticed. The dark shade under his hollow eyes swelled mildly. From Grindelwald’s escape in New York to the skirmish in Paris, a string of events took its toll on him.

‘Travers.’ replied Albus pleasantly, ‘They might have something important to say to you. I’m not in any hurry, you know.’

‘The ministry’s business is no concern of yours.’ Travers raised his voice, stressing every word.

‘Indeed.’

He carried on coolly, ‘Grindelwald is planning to…’

‘Forgive me, Torquil.’ Albus cut him short, eyes piercing, ‘We are here to mourn for someone that died fighting the man who murdered her colleagues and then herself. On this somber occasion, I have no intention of discussing who he’s going to murder next. Surely whatever you have in mind can wait till the funeral is concluded.’

‘I don’t have patience with your _manners_ , Dumbledore.’ He said, quite snappishly.

‘Speaking of manners,’ said Albus calmly, ‘I don’t appreciate you interrupting my class, Torquil. Should I merit another visit from you, I’m normally in my office during a free period.’

Travers’ eyes narrowed, and his mouth twitched into a thin smile. ‘You’ve decided to cooperate with us, I take it? To hunt down Grindelwald?’

‘I will offer you advice, as I have always done. But you disregarded my last warning, and people have lost their lives, so I regret to say, I don’t see how my advice can prove useful to you.’ Albus’ face was solemn, his voice amicable and unfaltering.

‘I don’t need your advice!’ Travers snapped. ‘What I need from you, Dumbledore, is to track him down and round him up, at the discretion of my department.’

Albus grinned and looked away. ‘If you had known the joy at teaching as I have, you would understand why I don’t want your job or do your bidding. I do not desire to partake in an international wizardhunt. Or, in your own words,’ Albus briefly stopped and went on quietly, _‘The ministry’s business is no concern of mine.’_

Travers flared his nostrils. His face reddened with rage as though he just gulped down a cupful of boiled water.

‘Sir!’ Theseus forced his way through the crowd and dashed to Travers, somewhat puffing. Travers held up his hand, gritting his teeth. ‘Just a moment, Theseus. I still have some unfinished business with your former professor,’ he hissed.

Theseus’ eyes darted to Albus apprehensively, then fixed on Travers again. ‘It’s the minister, Sir.’ He convulsively cleared his throat, ‘He said the meeting with the French has just been rescheduled. It starts in thirty minutes.’

Travers drew a sharp breath to regain his composure and grumbled, ‘Thank you, Theseus.’ He turned to Albus and shot staggers at him. ‘We are _not_ done.’ With that, he curtly turned his back and marched away.

When Travers was out of earshot, Theseus muttered with an agitated look on his face, ‘He’s under a lot of pressure. Staying overnight in his office for days in a row.’

‘I don’t blame him,’ said Albus, gazing at the direction Travers flounced out of the chamber.

‘D-Dumbledore?’ Theseus stuttered a little, ‘can I ask you something?’

‘Certainly.’

‘The pendant Newt’s Niffler stole,’ he deliberated, ‘it was Grindelwald’s, wasn’t it? I saw him wearing it in the cemetery.’

‘It _is_.’

‘What is it?’

‘It is something _if_ destroyed,’ Albus swallowed, ‘might help defeat him.’

‘Really?’ asked Theseus breathlessly, his eyes brightened. ‘Will you destroy it? To end it all?’

‘I want to see violence cease as much as you do, Theseus. If you still trust me…’

‘Of course, I do.’ Theseus said, earnestly. ‘I trusted you last time, and you were right about Grindelwald. I told Travers not to use heavy force, but he insisted.’ His mouth trembled, and he croaked in a voice that didn’t sound like his own, ‘and…’

‘I’m sorry about Leta,’ said Albus in a whisper.

Theseus groaned. ‘At least she would see her brother again.’ Unbeknownst to him, Leta had confessed how her brother (or rather, half-brother) actually died.

Albus could only manage to crack a feebly reassuring smile at Theseus.


	2. Firewhisky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now knowing how to destroy a blood pact, Gellert is convinced that Albus won’t be able to destroy theirs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Albus will be the DADA professor as he is in the movie.  
>  POV: Vinda  
>  P.S. If you are reading on a phone or tablet, the font might be messed up. 

Autumn in Nurmengard was glorious, clement for the time of year. The majestic valleys and mountains played in the embrace of an azure sky. Sunbeams rammed the last traces of summer deeper in the crevices of the cliffs. The breezes scented by marigold maple leaves were as tender and forgiving as the whispers of a parting lover.

Basking in the morning sun out on the patio, Vinda smoothed out the Daily Prophet from the other day (owl post from Britain usually took days to arrive) on an elegant table with scroll legs like spurred petals and a marmoreal top embellished by the Rosiers’ family crest and motto. She graced her coffee with a few drops of cream, gave it a gentle stir, and clinked the spoon against the rim of the argent cup with wandless magic. The table and the goblin-made cutlery were among the myriads of items her family bequeathed her. If she hadn’t left her fiancé to join her master years ago, the Rosier family’s most prized heirlooms and possessions would have tarnished in the hands of her Muggle-lover fiancé and his lot of blood traitors. Those cowards stood idly by while wizardkind scattered and scurried in shadows. (She vowed not to be forced into an arranged marriage and fritter away her years as a mundane housewife. And she did not wish to be treated like a princess in those Muggle fairy tales for which her worthless fiancé developed a disgraceful liking.) When Grindelwald built the castle, Vinda relocated some of her cherished belongings in the Rosier manor to Nurmengard (much to her master’s delight), where they would be used for a noble purpose, and deservedly so. Taking a slow, first sip, she nodded with satisfaction that the house-elves must have prepared the coffee al fresco because there were no kitchen smells lingering in the steam. She started on the front page of the newspaper:

Grindelwald’s Revengeful Return

Three Months after Escape, Grindelwald Took Revenge

In a joint press briefing by the Ministry of Magic and its French counterpart (Ministère des Affaires Magiques de la France), Torquil Travers, the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, announced that the notorious dark wizard Gellert Grindelwald rallied his followers in the Père-Lachaise cemetery in Paris, France. Mr Travers declined to make any further comment. However, anonymous sources inside the Ministry have shed light upon this latest episode in Grindelwald’s agenda of “For the Greater Good.” “Our Aurors suffered heavy casualties. It was a complete fiasco, no question,” said a senior Ministry official familiar with the situation. According to another source, a handful of Aurors deployed to capture Grindelwald had joined forces with the dark wizard after listening to his “sick and seditious” speech. The same source expressed concern at the Ministry’s policies and fear of the Alliance now bolstered by ex-Aurors’ presence. Grindelwald’s sinister campaign has devastated continental Europe but left the British Isles untouched — the reason Hector Fawley, Minister for Magic, reportedly chose not to inform the Muggle Prime Minister about the threat to Muggle-wizard relationship posed by Grindelwald. The Ministry spokeswizard said in a statement that “The Ministry will not disclose any sensitive information regarding Gellert Grindelwald’s whereabouts that would compromise the work of the Auror Office.”

_It’s not revenge that we seek — it’s freedom. These wimps know it and distort the truth about our_ cause, Vinda thought to herself. She skimmed over the smaller headlines. A title in the opinion column caught her attention: “Could This Professor Be Gellert Grindelwald’s Downfall?” by Elphias Doge (page 7). _Albus Dumbledore again_ , she sneered at the name. Vinda ripped open the paper and found page seven:

Could This Professor Be Gellert Grindelwald’s Downfall?

There is a growing consensus among many witches and wizards that Albus Dumbledore, the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, is the only living wizard who is capable of defeating Grindelwald in a duel. And they would be right. In his teenage years at Hogwarts, Dumbledore quickly became the most extraordinary talent the school had ever seen…

_What a piece of rubbish._ She sipped at her coffee and didn’t bother to read more. As she was about to flip the page, her eyes lit on a sentence that made her choke. Coughing and gasping for breath, she reread it: “He mentioned Grindelwald’s name to me decades ago when they first met and rarely spoke of him again as the latter has become the most powerful dark wizard of our time.” _Mentioned Grindelwald’s name? When they first met?_ _Master and the man he deems the greatest threat know each other all this time?_ Vinda lowered the cup carefully on the table and dabbed her mouth with a serviette. Why was _she_ not privy to this detail — after all, she was his most devoted acolyte and trusted advisor _. There isn’t a single soul that knows him more than I do…or is there?_ The man was something of an enigma, indeed. Operations were all he talked of, and he imparted information strictly on a need-to-know basis. Vinda learned her lesson long ago that he wasn’t one to divulge anything _private_ when she pumped him for the provenance of his pendant (he’d give her a stare that petrified her). _Ah…his pendant._ She hadn’t seen him wear it of late. _Curious. It’s been with him for as long as I can remember. When was the last time he wore it? That night in Paris. Something happened that I missed?_ This feeling of doubt unnerved her. To top it all, he hadn’t set foot outside his study ever since he gave the Obscurial a wand. This wasn’t unusual — silence and solitude were his suit of armor that shielded him, like how these impregnable castle walls safeguarded the secrets within. But Vinda knew better. _Something is on his mind. Is he angry and disappointed at me for the skull hookah being destroyed by Lestrange? What’s keeping him up at night?_

Vinda was deep in thought until… _Crack_! A house-elf apparated out of thin air.

‘Mademoiselle Rosier,’ said the elf, sinking into a bow.

‘You are too early, Elva. I haven’t finished yet.’ She took another sip of her coffee, not taking her eyes off the paper. ‘Off you go.’

‘Elva is sorry that she disturbed Mademoiselle Rosier.’ The elf bowed again. ‘But Master instructed Elva to deliver a message to you, Mademoiselle.’

‘A message?’ Vinda frowned and straightened up as the elf pulled a folded parchment from the inside of the baggy rag she was wearing. Vinda took the parchment from the elf.

‘Elva?’ An idea struck her. She conjured an enamel pin and said, ‘This might go well with your clo…’ she corrected, ‘what you are wearing.’ Vinda handed the pin to the elf, who bowed so deeply that her crooked nose touched the patio tile. ‘Thank you, Mademoiselle Rosier! Thank you!’ squeaked the elf, tears welling up in her protruding eyes.

‘Now,’ Vinda didn’t hesitate to press her advantage, ‘How _is_ your Master? Is he still staying in his study day and night?’

The elf let out a squeal and nervously shuffled her feet. ‘Master has forbidden Elva to tell anyone how Master is. “Not even Mademoiselle Rosier” Master said.’

‘And when did he tell you that?’ Vinda asked tersely.

After a moment of thinking, the elf couldn’t see herself defy her Master by answering the question. ‘Since Master came back from France,’ she said in a hushed whisper.

Vinda gave her a curt nod and unfolded the parchment:

My study. Immediately. (Password: Honig)

‘I’m done here, Elva.’ Vinda got to her feet and smoothed her dress. ‘Take the dishes with you.’ She went on, ‘Send the paper back to my boudoir,’ and briskly crossed the patio toward the castle.

* * *

‘Honig.’ The bird-like gargoyle sprang to life, flapped its wings, and leaped aside. The stone wall evaporated as she walked straight through, then reappeared as solid as ever. Behind the wall was an arched corridor that led onwards passed assorted paintings and stained-glass windows to her master’s study. She nearly tapped the door when it swung open and clicked shut after she tripped inside. The room was dimly lit; the drapes were drawn, blocking out the mellow sunlight. It took her a second to absorb the inky darkness around her.

‘Ah, Vinda.’

She didn’t find her master behind his elaborate pedestal desk as she usually would. She wouldn’t be able to even if he was, for all she could discern was the blue firelight glowing with a lure, illuminating its vicinity. Grindelwald was sitting in a solitary armchair, its high back facing Vinda and concealing him. His silhouette was clear against the mantelpiece, his booted feet up on an embroidered footstool.

‘Sir?’ She was hesitant to approach him. She thought she could see his eyes were closed.

‘You’ve read the Daily Prophet, I presume? What’s it saying?’ He sounded a bit hoarse.

 _He is omniscient as always._ ‘The British Ministry remains silent. Naturally, there are leaks…’

‘That’s enough.’ He interjected.

After a brief pause, he said, ‘There’s something I need you to do for me.’ Did she detect a faint note of reluctance in his voice? ‘I don’t trust anyone else with it.’

‘Anything,’ she heard herself say.

Another pause, more protracted, followed.

‘Very well: listen up,’ said Grindelwald, barely moving his lips. ‘In my private library, I need you to gather all information on blood pact. The entrance to the library is a picture of an English oak in the corridor. Tickle the scarlet leaf — it’ll turn into a door handle. You might want to begin with the Ancient History of Magic section. You must not delegate lest anyone should find out what you’re doing for me. Leave out the Law & Contract and Bodily Magic sections. I shall attend to them personally…’ His voice tailed away.

 _His private library? Master has a library here in the castle? And what is a blood pact?_ Dumbfounded, she had a flood of questions. As though reading her mind, Grindelwald coldly added, ‘A blood pact, Vinda, is a binding magical contract sealed by the sharing of blood.’

‘Of course, sir.’ Her throat constricted and swallowed hard. ‘I’ll get onto it right away.’

‘And Vinda?’

‘Yes?’

‘My library is not a _school_ library — it doesn’t have a silly Restricted Section to insulate you from the most unpleasant of books. While you will find them…enthralling, be careful,’ he cautioned, then dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

 _If it is merely looking up information in the library, and if it is as confidential as it seems, surely master would have done it alone?_ But Vinda set the question aside.

* * *

No other library had dazzled her with its sheer immensity, somber beauty, and an extensive collection of the most spellbinding books in the same fashion as this one. Meandering slowly through the bookshelves, Vinda lost track of time. She wasn’t sure whether there was a dark corner she hadn’t visited, for she got the impression that this library was a maze, and its towering shelves were hedges. She halted in front of a cabinet of curios, among which was a volume of unmarked tomes, each whispering indistinctly through the glass doors. _How dangerous can a book be?_ Her curiosity got better of her. When she pulled at the ice-cold knob (it reminded her of coming near a ghost), the doors vanished. Holding her breath, she smoothly took a weighty tome off the shelf (it might have slipped and landed in her hand), briefly observed the plain cover, and opened it. As she riffled through the book, she finally came upon a page that wasn’t as blank as the cover. It had an etching of a flame. Without considering, without knowing why, she ran a fingertip over the flame. At that instant, the etching flared into life. Vinda forced the tome shut and wedged it, smoldering and quivering, into the gap where it came. She steadied herself against the wall. The smell of putrefying flesh permeated the air. For a moment, she thought her hand was still ablaze, but she realized the burning sensation seared from a smudge left by the flame. _It’ll go away_ , although she didn’t have a clue what it was.

* * *

The question she had when she left her master’s study was answered after a few days of sifting through mounds of books. It would be a daunting, if not impossible, task for one person to accomplish in a short span of time. She wore a pair of lace gloves to ward off the sometimes coarse, sometimes musty paper (and to obscure the smudge that had blackened and radiated). One night, Vinda came to her master’s study to drop off another stack of books. Rosy candlelight brightened the room, and the fireplace gleamed lilac that was the blue firelight mingled with rose. _He’s not here._ She decided to leave the books on his desk where pieces of parchment sparsely strewed. The only book on the desk piqued her interest. It looked slim and frail. A title was absent from its leather cover tattered at the edges. _A diary?_ Sticking out of the wavy pages was a card from which she made out a sleeved forearm — it was someone’s photograph. _Maybe he won’t be back just yet._ Vinda opened to the page where the card lay. It was a postcard. Two young men were smiling at her and then at each other, one with auburn hair and blue eyes, one with blonde hair and mismatched… _It’s master._ The card sent a sudden tremor through her hand, and she drew a deep breath — it was her first glimpse into his youth. _And who is this man beside him? A friend?_ The man wore a brooch of sorts. Upon closer look, Vinda recognized it at once — the pendant. _So the pendant used to belong to this man?_ She flipped over the postcard. A note in cursive handwriting read,

Gellert, you left Godric’s Hollow in haste. I thought you’d want to keep your best memory here always with you. Tante, Bathilda Bagshot

As Vinda reached the last word, she heard the sound of heavy footsteps in the corridor. She hurriedly stuffed the postcard back in the book when the door creaked open, and Grindelwald walked in.

‘I have more books for you, sir.’ Vinda tried to avert her eyes from the book with the postcard inside.

‘I’ve found what I needed. But I’d like you to keep looking, just to be sure,’ said Grindelwald as he ensconced himself in his armchair by the fireplace. ‘Now, join me for a snifter.’ He gestured for her to come over.

He may have cast _Petrificus Totalus_ on her, for she was too flabbergasted to move. _Join him for a snifter? He_ is _in an unusually gleeful mood._ She trod gingerly toward him, the rug under her feet like spring grass. He waved his hand; another armchair, quite like his, appeared, alongside it a glass in midair. Dutifully, Vinda sat down. The glass half-filled itself with a lush, vermilion drink. Before catching hold of it, she nearly took off her gloves. (But she picked at her sleeve instead to hopefully disguise the move.) _He did warn me to be careful with the books._

There was a deafening silence. She felt her master was like a gelid statue.

‘Show me.’

‘P-Pardon, sir?’ She sputtered, startled by the speaking statue.

‘Your hand.’ Grindelwald had a sip of his drink. _How does he know? It doesn’t matter._

‘My hand?’ She asked with feigned confusion. _It’s worth a try._

‘You are never a good Occlumens, Vinda.’ He fixed her with a mesmerizing stare. ‘Besides, I heard your chance encounter with one of the books from the cabinet.’

‘You _heard_ …’ She let slip. He stared at her still. _He was invisible! That’s why I never saw him in the library!_

Grindelwald extended his hand. Grudgingly, she peeled off her gloves, leaned forward, and offered her scorched hand to his pale palm. He cradled her hand as he would an injured bird and examined it with an intensity fiercer than the heat of a flame. Holding her hand, he slid out of the armchair and knelt on one knee. His black overcoat thudded on the rug. Vinda leaned back as he pulled his wand from a pocket and pointed it at her hand. Grindelwald started to murmur spells that could be anything but English, their cadence that of a villanelle echoing in the halls of history or an exquisite aria sung from afar. The mark on her hand dispersed like a drop of ink diffused in water. When the murmurs died, he lifted his head to look at her, his eyes shimmering enigmatically in the firelight. In that infinitesimal pause, without planning it, as if she had meant to do it, she kissed him. His lips weren’t at all those of a gelid statue; the flame that burned her hand might have just burned her lips as they brushed his, and that was when she tasted it — _Firewhisky_.

Their lips abruptly broke off as a hand grabbed her arm and pinned her firmly against the armchair back. She saw something she’d never seen before — his eyes wide in wonderment — though it quickly faded into the inscrutable countenance that showed so little. He released his grip and sat back in his armchair. Sounds penetrated the empty silence around her: the fire crackling, her lungs heaving, her heart pounding, and the glasses replenishing. She gazed into the fire like her very existence depended on it, although its glare was blinding her.

After what seemed like an eternity, Grindelwald spoke, ‘You have some nerve, Mademoiselle Rosier.’ The air between them vibrated with his utterance.

Vinda turned as scarlet as that leaf in the oak picture. She could see his amused smirk at the periphery of her vision. ‘Your useless fiancé was a fool to not see what a wonder you were, and still are.’ He swirled his glass and continued, ‘You can’t imagine how important you are to me. Everything you’ve done for me — I’d do the same for you.’ He sipped and savored the Firewhisky with an appreciative shake of the head. His gaze pierced through her once more, ‘Look at me,’ his voice commanding.

Her eyes swiveled around and met his gaze.

‘All the things you’ve given me, I’d give them to you. But your little gesture a couple of minutes ago is not one of them.’ His tone grim but silky, he said, ‘I cannot give you a lover’s love because I won’t betray love the same way you won’t betray me.’

_Won’t betray love? Your love for someone? Or someone’s love for you? Or is it just ‘love’?_

‘It was just a…gesture, nothing more.’ She replied truthfully with a clumsy shrug, not sure if her words were too soft to hear.

They lapsed into silence again.

‘I will be travelling in the next few days.’ He began, ‘If anyone asks, tell them any story.’ He emptied his glass.

She recovered her poise, ‘Should I touch base with one of our safe houses?’ ‘ _Sir_ ,’ she added.

‘No.’ He adamantly refused.

Grindelwald rose from his armchair. He bent to pick up her cured hand and kissed it on the back. ‘Good night, Mademoiselle Rosier,’ he breathed.

‘Sir? May I ask where you are going?’ She asked as he turned to leave.

He stopped but didn’t look back. He said, almost as an afterthought, ‘Britain,’ and disappeared behind a door.

Draining the last of her Firewhisky, that postcard in her mind, Vinda discovered that she scarcely knew him _._ Thinking about his “ _I won’t betray love,_ ” she wondered, _what is it like to be loved by Gellert Grindelwald_.

 _It’s gotta be much more splendid than this Firewhisky_ , she reckoned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Honig is ‘honey’ in German. (‘Dumbledore’ means bumblebees, which produce honey. ‘Honig’ is meant to be a random password, but I thought it would be nice to have this connection.)  
>  2\. I drew my inspiration for the curse on Vinda’s hand from the screaming book Harry stumbled across in the Restricted Section in his first year, as well as the curse on Marvolo Gaunt’s ring.  
>  3\. The fruit-bowl picture that was the door to the Hogwarts kitchens provided the inspiration for the English oak picture, the entrance to Gellert’s library.  
>  4\. Credence Barebone/Aurelius Dumbledore: I’ll omit him for the most part because whoever he is (which we don’t know), he will be important to the already complicated Albus/Gellert relationship. (My favorite theory about him is that he is Albus’ Obscurial.)  
>  5\. If I keep this thing going, we’ll discover how to destroy a blood pact along with Albus (my own theory that fits this story).  
>  Sidenote: As the next three movies unfold, I think the blood pact may never be destroyed, and there could be other ways for Albus and Gellert to move against each other. Since Fantastic Beasts 3 will be set in 1939, (and I doubt they’ll just tell the audience the blood pact is destroyed somewhere between 1927 and 1939) if Albus Dumbledore can’t destroy it in more than a decade, then probably no one can. 


	3. A Call from the Past

Summer 1899

Albus was in a comfy rocking chair. He wore a thin, crimson robe. He was absent-mindedly leafing through a book, occasionally glancing up to the drowsing man in bed. Unconsciously picking at the ribbon bookmark, he stiffly turned his eyes away from the other back to the book:

The International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy was signed in 1689…

He saw Gellert’s toes from the corner of his eye.

Clause 73 stated: “Each wizarding governing body will be responsible for the concealment…

Gellert’s hand dangled loosely over the edge of the bed. The same delicate hand that had reveled in the place of his pleasure last night.

Should any such creature cause harm to, or draw the notice of, the Muggle community, that…

And those lips. The same luscious lips that had claimed his lips, his eyes, his neck, and his torso.

Albus leapt to his feet and adjusted the chair so he wouldn’t face the bed. In the end, he couldn’t focus as letters blurred into words, words into sentences, and sentences into a jumble of gibberish; those toes, hand, and lips made the room become a kaleidoscope of colors.

And Gellert. He outshone everything in the room, the house, and Albus’ world like how Sirius outshone all the other stars in a starry night. But Gellert was no Sirius, for he was a much more dazzling star that had lit up Albus’ starless sky and became his sun.

Albus snapped the book shut and curled up in the chair, staring into the void.

‘Albus…’ Gellert was stirring under the covers. The sunshine streamed through the window with a golden grace, a sacred gold, glowing like Gellert’s velvety skin or glossy hair that Albus had worshipped.

He hastily opened the book as the other emerged from the covers and stretched out. Gellert ran a hand over his face and squinted into the window.

‘What’s the book?’ Gellert asked with a yawn. He propped himself up on one elbow.

‘ _Magical Law Through the Ages_ ,’ said Albus matter-of-factly. ‘Hogwarts doesn’t offer any courses in magical law.’ He added to lighten his tone.

‘Durmstrang does. Never took that course though; they expelled me, didn’t they?’ Gellert said with a casual smirk. ‘It turned out well, I suppose — they didn’t get to indoctrinate me, and —’ he sat up, ‘I got to meet _you_.’ He winked at Albus as he pushed back a few blonde hairs that had slipped forward. Albus’ eyes smiled up at him.

‘Are you wearing my robe?’

‘So I am.’ Albus pulled the robe closer around him. ‘It’s cozier than my Hogwarts robe.’

‘Where did you find it?’

‘The closet.’

‘I burned everything from Durmstrang that I had when I left there, except for my robes. Durmstrang makes the best robes, and you can’t buy them in a shop like you do at Hogwarts.’ Gellert tilted his head and said, ‘It’s a bit loose-fitting on you, but you should keep it if you like it. Come.’ Gellert patted the space next to him. ‘Why did you get up so early?’

Albus put the book down and climbed into bed.

‘I said, why did you get up so early?’ Gellert locked Albus in his embrace.

‘I always get up early.’ Albus leaned back, nestling against Gellert’s chest.

Gellert shed part of the robe and gently stroked Albus on his thigh. ‘Last night, you were moaning,’ he breathed against Albus’ ear, ‘and…’

‘You didn’t like it?’

‘I enjoyed it.’ He paused for a beat. ‘I’m not talking about _during_ — it’s _after_. You moaned in your sleep. I don’t know. You may have been whimpering. I couldn’t tell.’

‘So?’ Albus snuggled his head onto Gellert’s shoulder.

‘Are you okay?’ Gellert fondled the auburn hair, and his gaze flickered to Albus’. Albus jerked his gaze away.

‘You dreamt about your parents? Is that why you woke up early?’ Gellert let it slip.

‘Don’t _read_ me!’ Albus pulled away.

‘I’m sorry! Wait.’ Gellert cuddled Albus close. ‘I just want to know you are _okay_.’

Albus burrowed his face into Gellert’s chest, snug and safe. ‘I’m fine,’ he mumbled. ‘Don’t make me close my mind against _you_.’

Gellert cupped Albus’ face in his hand and said, ‘You will always have their love and _mine_. _I_ am here, aren’t I?’

‘Don’t leave me alone like they have.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Swear it.’

‘I swear it.’ He clasped Albus’ hand and kissed his forehead. ‘And are you okay otherwise?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I meant —’ Gellert hastened to correct.

‘Sore.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m okay.’

‘And when I —’

Albus pressed a finger against Gellert’s lips. ‘I was okay.’

‘I thought you almost asked me to stop.’

‘Almost,’ said Albus as he nuzzled Gellert’s neck and encircled his arms about his waist. The merry chirp of baby birds mingled with the drone of a cicada filled up the silence.

‘Albus, I’ve been thinking,’ he lifted Albus’ chin, ‘The Peverell brothers must have been really powerful wizards, and they created the Hallows.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Albus listened with half an ear and fiddled with the robe.

‘We could attempt something similar. You know, a magical object — created by _us_ — that can bind us together.’ Gellert spoke in earnest as he caressed Albus’ cheek.

‘Then you must have an idea of how to do that?’ Albus knew Gellert wouldn’t have brought it up if he hadn’t done the research.

‘Naturally.’ Gellert stared into Albus’ brilliant blue eyes. ‘It involves blood.’

‘Blood?’ Albus repeated with a doubtful expression. ‘Gellert, if this is another experiment with dark magic —’

‘No.’ Gellert cut him off. ‘Not all blood magic is dark magic. You know that.’

‘Go on,’ said Albus, raising an inquiring eyebrow.

‘It’s called a blood pact. It’s a contract, like the Unbreakable Vow.’

‘And what can it do?’

‘Nothing really. It’s harmless — the only aspect it falls short of. Unlike the Elder Wand or the Cloak, a blood pact is more of a token.’ Gellert didn’t hide his mild disappointment. ‘But on the upside, may the Elder Wand be snapped in two, a blood pact is a virtually indestructible bond.’

‘Sounds like the most powerful magic in its own right.’

‘I know of one that’s more powerful.’ Gellert said with a sly grin.

‘And what’s that?’ Albus played along.

Gellert grabbed his wand. ‘Close your eyes.’

‘What’re you — what’s the wand for?’

‘I want to show you something. Close your eyes.’ Albus gave him one quizzical look with a shrug before closing his eyes.

‘It is this…’ Gellert was a hairsbreadth from him. When his lips melted into Albus’, a ray of sunbeam poured through the window as the warmth of Gellert’s throat poured into Albus. His kiss wasn’t as wet or breathless as the ones from last night. It was like a healing balm or the first light of dawn with a hint of dewy sweetness.

‘I love you,’ whispered Gellert as his lips parted. After a moment or two, he said, ‘Open your eyes.’ Albus opened his eyes as though he awakened from a sweet dream.

He gasped.

Albus was looking at himself. The other Albus grinned at him.

‘Gellert?’ Albus blinked in utter bewilderment. He reached out his hand and traced the other’s features: the brow, the bridge of his nose, and the jawline. ‘What — who did I just kiss?’ he blurted.

Gellert chuckled softly. ‘Does it matter?’

‘You still have your voice. I see _you_ in the eyes and your smile.’ Albus traced the other’s lips with his fingers. ‘You are _in there_.’

‘Now,’ Gellert threw Albus’ wand to him, ‘It’s your turn.’

‘My turn?’ Albus looked at his wand as if it was a stranger’s.

‘To assume my form.’

‘I bet you didn’t pull it off right off the bat, did you?’

‘I might have practiced beforehand.’ Gellert muttered.

‘It’s not fair —’

‘Hey, I’m not the one who wrote papers to Transfiguration Today. You once said you’re better at transfiguration than me. Time to prove yourself,’ said Gellert with a challenging look on his face.

‘Right.’ Albus conceded. ‘I guess I can do the head.’

‘Not just the head, no.’ Gellert closed in on Albus, who, for the first time, noticed Gellert’s neck and shoulders looked like his own.

‘You assumed my _body_?’

Gellert pulled Albus closer, their auburn hair brushing together lightly. ‘I remember every inch of you. Do you remember every inch of me?’

Albus let out a long, calm breath. ‘Close your eyes.’

Their lips met in a kiss again as Albus was transforming. The lips were unfamiliar to Albus, but their slight movements weren’t. He savored the kiss — Gellert tasted like the Gellert minutes ago. After they broke apart, Albus took a few moments to transform his face. ‘Open your eyes.’

Albus was Gellert, and Gellert Albus. They were each other.

‘You are me…’ Gellert was lost for words.

‘I am you.’

‘I see you in my eyes.’

‘I see you in mine.’ _Feeling_ the answer in his bones, Albus asked, ‘And what’s the more powerful magic you wanted to show me?’

‘Say it.’

‘Love.’ Albus uttered.

‘Love.’ Gellert echoed.

‘You’re an incurable romantic.’

‘I’m not being a romantic. It’s the truth — our love is true, and that it’s more powerful is true. You’ll see.’

‘If _love_ is indeed more powerful, what do we need a blood pact for?’ Albus wittily cornered him.

‘For the same reason people celebrate anniversaries or wear rings, and _that_ is called being romantic.’

A couple of sharp raps at the door interrupted the lovers.

‘Who is it?’

‘Who else can it be? She must have forgotten the key.’ Gellert picked up Albus’ clothes on the floor and put them on. ‘I put a charm on the door, so _Alohomora_ won’t work.’

‘Does she know I’m here?’

‘I told her we are working on something that must be done at night —’ Gellert flashed a mischievous smile, ‘which is true. Maybe she thinks we’re brewing some potion that requires moonlight.’

‘Maybe we should tell her.’

Gellert waved his hand dismissively. ‘I read about blood pacts in one of the books in her study. It’s downstairs. Follow me — you’ll want to check it out.’

Gellert rushed out of the room, and Albus hurried after him. Albus heard the door open on his way down the stairs, but it wasn’t Bathilda — it was Aberforth.

‘Here you are!’ Aberforth glared at Gellert/Albus and folded his arms.

‘What are _you_ doing here?’ Gellert pulled out his wand.

‘What happened to your voice? And why are you holding _his_ wand?’ Aberforth demanded.

‘Aberforth!’ Albus dashed towards the door and pointed his wand at himself, ‘ _Revelio_.’ He transformed back.

‘Gellert, perhaps you should also —’

‘I’m good. Thank you very much, Albus.’ Gellert’s eyes bored into Aberforth.

‘What are you two playing at?’ Aberforth darted puzzled looks back and forth between Albus and Gellert/Albus. ‘Did you take Polyjuice Po —’ His eyes swept over Albus and fixed on the crimson robe. A sudden realization dawned on him. ‘AH! I SEE. A GENIUS SUCH AS YOURSELF DOESN'T NEED A POTION TO TRANSFORM INTO THE PERSON YOU’VE SLEPT WITH!’ He jabbed Albus in the ribs with a finger and bellowed, ‘TELL ME, DID I STEP ON A ROMANTIC MOMENT?!’ He gave a derisive laugh.

‘Aberforth, _please_ —’

‘Shut it, Albus!’ Aberforth turned his face the other way as if he was slapped. ‘Someone needs to look after Ariana while I get some food for next week, and I couldn’t find you. Thought you might be with _him_. Now I can see you are in much better company.’ He shoved Albus away from him and charged out the door.

‘Aberforth, wait!’

‘Dumbledore? Dumbledore!’

Albus was soaring up through pitch blackness out of the Pensieve and thrown backward. Someone was coming up to him — Newt.

‘Good evening, Newt.’ Albus regained his balance against a table, his breath in short gasps.

‘Are you alright?’ Newt sounded like he was seeing the very sick. ‘Were you… _weeping_? In that thing?’ He glanced at the Pensieve nervously as though it was about to explode.

‘This,’ Albus gestured at the innocent basin, ‘is a Pensieve.’

‘You own a Pensieve?’ Newt eyed it interestingly.

‘It belongs to the serving Headmaster or Headmistress of Hogwarts. Professor Dippet has allowed me to use it.’

‘I thought they show you memories. They can’t inflict _real harm_ , can they?’

Albus did not answer. He walked behind his desk and settled in his chair. ‘So, Newt. To what do I owe this late pleasure?’

‘Oh, right!’ Newt crouched down and opened his suitcase. ‘I brought you Dillonsby’s notes. _Accio notes_!’ A pile of paper flew out of the suitcase and neatly stacked itself on Albus’ desk.

‘Thank you, Newt.’

‘And these are for you.’ He pulled a handful of letters from his coat. ‘I met McGonagall on my way here. She said they came from the school owls.’

‘A cup of tea? I’m afraid I keep no Butterbeer in my office,’ said Albus as he started to read the letters.

‘Tea will do. I’ll help myself.’

The first letter was from Transfiguration Today. They asked if Albus still intended to contribute as a columnist. The next was from Eulalie. She probably found something in the Ilvermorny Library. He didn’t open the letter; he’d have to delve into it later, for he’d had enough for one night. Albus turned his attention to the last letter. It was quite flimsy, and the envelope was plain and reticent. He flipped back the flap and pulled out a thin piece of parchment:

St Jerome’s Church

On the stroke of midnight

You and me

The intimate handwriting drowned his surroundings to nothingness. Albus hadn’t seen or _touched_ anything penned by _him_ for decades. It seemed light years had passed, and light years ago seemed like yesterday. This was from _him_ — Albus was surer of it than of his own numb existence. The memories in the Pensieve paled into insignificance compared to these words, which caused far more exquisite agonies. He had to be alone and _think_ , but not here. Besides, he was desperate for fresh air.

‘Newt, could you sort out the notes for me if you’d like to stay longer?’ Albus slipped a travelling cloak over him and tucked the letter inside his robe.

‘Certainly.’ Newt placed his teacup on the table. ‘Are you going somewhere?’

Newt got no answer as Albus raised a hand in farewell and left the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> St Jerome’s Church is a church in Godric’s Hollow. 


End file.
